Work Text:
Miya Osamu
[picture attached]
found this place after work last night
we should go there the next time ya here
it makes a p mean curry
Sounds lovely, Miya-san
Miya Osamu
geez
what’s a man gotta do to get you to call him by his name
anyway
been to any good places recently?
Not particularly
I haven’t had the time to explore
Work has been busy
Miya Osamu
damn
hope things ease up soon
make sure ya still eating well
Thank you
You too
It should be a telling sign that the work pants Akaashi’s bought at the start of last year are now loose around his waist. But his mind has already spectral-projected ahead to the Shounen Vie Office, busy running through the many, many items on his to-do list for the day, so all his hands do is just reach for a belt hanging by his wardrobe. He doesn’t quite think of it, as he tightens the belt by an additional notch, before it sits somewhat comfortably on his frame.
Pausing by the kitchen only to make sure his thermos is filled to the brim with the coffee his brain desperately needs to get through yet another day, Akaashi sprints out of his apartment. He’s already two minutes behind schedule, and if he doesn’t catch the 7.16am bus, then he’s going to have to wait another 15 minutes for the next bus.
In 15 minutes, one could possibly do many things:
- Do his third read-through of Tenma’s latest chapter outline he has tucked away in his bag, because there’s something nagging at him about the way the story progresses but he can’t put a finger on it
- Start research on the location where Tenma had mentioned he wanted to set the next arc of the fight, it’s in a rural area somewhere in the Toyama prefecture, which Akaashi knows little about
- Browse through the new series and issues that their competitor publishers have just released online, and make his usual list of ‘what works / what doesn’t work’ for the rest of the office to peruse
- Dart into the combini just next to the bus stop to get a sandwich for breakfast
Akaashi considers these options as he makes a mad dash for the bus that's just pulled up at the bus stop. He makes it - although the bus-driver does tut at him for his unsightly sprint on, shaking the entire vehicle with the force of his impact. Safely on-board, panting slightly from the exertion that’s truthfully nothing compared to his high-school days, Akaashi catches sight of the combini as the bus pulls away from the stop - realising with a little jolt that he hasn’t had anything much to eat since lunch yesterday.
Well, is what he thinks, as the looming deadlines for the week already begin to eclipse his now non-existent appetite, I’ll just get something later.
Miya Osamu
ya coming down for the game this weekend?
i’ll make reservations at this new sukiyaki place if u are
Unfortunately, no
We’ve a bit to do this week
Miya Osamu
okay then
i’ll still save some onigiri just in case
make sure u ain’t working too hard k?
⸻
It was inevitable that Akaashi ran into Osamu - they’re both frequent spectators at MSBY games after all. Given then-Akaashi’s ravenous appetite, it had just been a matter of time that he’d eventually finish sampling the range of rotating food stalls set up alongside the games, and end up at Onigiri Miya.
Osamu had grimaced, when Akaashi had called him Miya-san, waving his hand dismissively, “It’s weird if ya call me that, when yer know my brother.”
“I don’t actually know him,” had been Akaashi’s reply - which was both true and false. He had never actually had a proper conversation with Atsumu before, but had heard enough stories about him from Bokuto that he might as well have met the man in the flesh. Even so, Akaashi had been surprised at how normal Osamu seemed to be, given how wild Bokuto’s stories - while prone to exaggeration, still held a grain of truth - painted Atsumu to be.
“Well, Bokkun does, and ya know Bokkun so it’s the same thing,” Osamu pointed out. “Just call me Osamu, s’all cool.”
“I’ll consider it,” Akaashi replied, and there had been the briefest flutter of surprise across Osamu’s face before it smoothed out into a lazy smile.
Honestly, Akaashi had expected their (lack of) relationship to stay within the boundaries of MSBY games - just passing acquaintances, connected by the fact that they both had close friends in the team. Yet, the machinations of the universe had moved, such that one day, Akaashi had received a text from an unknown number:
6-XXXX-XXXX
hey
this is osamu
bokkun gave me ur number
i’m coming up to tokyo this weekend if ya wanna hang?
After spending 10 minutes chewing out Bokuto on the ethics of giving out his number without his explicit permission (“But Akaashi, he’s your friend too, isn’t he? I always see you chatting with him, when you’re waiting for us to be done,” came Bokuto’s indignant reply - clearly over-estimating the status of friendly, polite conversation with a peripheral stranger. “Besides, he said he wanted to look for a location for a Tokyo store. Wouldn’t you wanna eat onigiri all the time?”), Akaashi had answered, not quite sure why his fingers were trembling:
Sure
The night had started at a yakitori place that Osamu mentioned Bokuto insisted Akaashi took him to and ended up with beers at a cosy bar, tucked into a corner of a quiet neighbourhood. It had surprised Akaashi how easy conversation had flowed between them. But then again, as he considered Osamu in the warm-lit glow of the bar, smile bright with the haze of good food and alcohol, maybe not.
“Let’s do this again,” Osamu had said, leaning in towards Akaashi, closer than he needed to. Akaashi counted, one two three seconds in his head, in a futile attempt to calm his heart-beat. An impossible task, with the way Osamu’s eyes flicked down the briefest second to Akaashi’s lips then back up, the smallest smirk on his face because he knew Akaashi had noticed. “My treat the next time ya come down to Osaka.”
It had been easy enough, to chalk up to the warmth curling in his stomach to the effects of the dozens of skewers, some tempura, one bowl of ramen, and three pints of beer they’d each demolished across that night.
Even so, emboldened by the fuzzy comfort of booze and a surprisingly good night, Akaashi had smiled, “I’d like that very much indeed.”
⸻
Miya Osamu
help me decide
1) takoyaki
2) okonomiyaki
3) udon
That’s a hard choice
Takoyaki?
Miya Osamu
the real akaashi would say all of the above
work rly fried ya brains huh
You have no idea
Miya Osamu
aw :(
what are ya gonna get tonight?
I’m not really sure
We may order something in if we get too busy
There should still be people in the office by dinner time
Miya Osamu
eh i’ll file a complaint on ur behalf if they keep slave driving u like this
or i’ll send tsumu he’s been wanting to set fire to something lately
Please don’t set fire to my place of employment
I wouldn’t be able to afford the train tickets down to Osaka otherwise
Akaashi almost collapses with fright when he turns the corner to his apartment, and sees an apparition standing by his door-step. It must be the long hours, he rationalises to himself, even as manners compel him to raise one shaking hand up in greeting at the phantom before him.
Then the figure speaks and Akaashi knows he must be real, because one year as a manga editor hasn’t honed his imagination enough to conjure up voices for imaginary beings before him -
“Yer did ask, when I was gonna open up a Tokyo branch?” Osamu is leaning against his door-frame, a bulging bag of groceries in each hand. He’s wearing a slightly crumpled black Onigiri Miya shirt, as if he’d just came over from the end of a shift; and a casually confident smile, like this is an everyday occurrence.
Akaashi must take too long to reply, because the smile on Osamu’s face melts into something less certain, “‘mean, yer don’t haveta worry about entertain’ me. I’m honestly just here to cook so yer can do ya work if you’ve stuff to do.”
The slight hesitance in Osamu’s words has Akaashi find his voice, yet all he can say is, “Miya-san, it’s 10.47pm on a Friday evening.”
And despite Akaashi cringing at how blatantly obvious, disgustingly precise a statement he’d said, Osamu just laughs, confidence restored. He shrugs, his eyes twinkling as if he’s amused by a joke that Akaashi hasn’t quite gotten the punch line of yet, “Hmm, so it is.”
⸻
It turns out, Osamu’s brought enough food to feed an army, and then some. He weaves his way around Akaashi’s tiny kitchen with more familiarity than Akaashi’s already had, tucking food away in various cupboards, packing them into the refrigerator.
“It’s important to eat well y’know,” Osamu says, as Akaashi watches him bustling around his kitchen, still half-disbelieving that the entire situation isn’t just a fever dream his overworked mind has conjured. It doesn’t help that somehow, there’s already jazz music playing over the tiny bluetooth speakers Akaashi’s tucked into the corner of his kitchen counter, specifically for the rare days he has the time to be pretentious and sit by the kitchen, with a cup of coffee, and low-fi tunes in the background, and just read. “Didn’t yer coach tell y’all that during training?”
But no, the smell of the bubbling curry on his stove - the scent swirling down into his being - is better than anything his own hands could ever create, much less his mind magick out of thin air. His stomach growls, for what seems like the first time in days, and Akaashi notices with a jolt that he’s actually -
“Good to hear that,” Osamu chuckles, as he dices up a few more carrots and tips them into the pot. There’s the faintest dusting of pink across his face that must surely be because of the heat of the kitchen, as he continues, more to himself than to Akaashi, “I was gettin’ a lil’ worried.”
“Worried?” Akaashi asks, because apparently he’s a Literature major who doesn’t know any words.
Turning abruptly to measure out rice for the rice-cooker, Osamu’s back says, “Yea, yer work and everythin’. Ya hadn’t sent me a thirst trap for days.”
Thirst trap in this context had a perfectly innocent connotation, Osamu had taken to calling the photos of Akaashi’s food gallivants across Tokyo that. It had been a routine, between the two of them, to send pictures of whatever new foods they were trying out that week, interesting places to check out together whenever the other’s in town. Yet, Akaashi’s face flushes, his neck heating up, “I’ve just been busy with work. You didn’t have to trouble yourself.”
You didn’t have to worry is the real sentiment darting like flitting shadows in between the spaces of Akaashi’s words, too intimate to say out loud given the tentative nature of their relationship.
“Nah, s’alright,” Osamu busies himself with washing a few stray dishes in the sink. He turns around, with a smile, warm enough to chase some of the shadows away, “Why don't’ yer go take a shower or something first? This’ll be done by the time ya ready.”
“I can -”
“Hey, it’s fine,” Osamu says, his expression is soft yet there’s a stubborn gleam in his eyes, and Akaashi knows a losing battle when he sees one. He gestures vaguely at the kitchen behind him, like it lends weight to his argument, “‘Sides, I like cookin’ in new kitchens. It’s like a lil’ adventure.”
Akaashi can’t resist the jibe back, “So is taking the train over from another prefecture just to cook a meal.”
“What can I say, I’m just adventurous like that,” Osamu’s answer rolls off his tongue easily. It would sound greasy if not for the unbearably sincere expression on his face. The earnestness should sit heavy in Akaashi’s stomach, but instead, he just feels the stirrings of hunger, the want of something more. He opens his mouth to reply, but finds that he isn’t quite sure what to say, what to make of this lack of nerves. It’s ironically unnerving, the lack of hesitation is.
Osamu turns his attention back to the stove, with a casualness that seems almost feigned, “Don’t worry ‘bout this. I’ll be ready when yer are.”
(It doesn’t take a Literature graduate to know he’s not just talking about the food.)
⸻
The smell hits Akaashi the moment he steps out of the shower - the heartiness of the aroma slams into him, almost like a physical blow, and Akaashi has to take a moment to compose himself before he steps into the kitchen area. It really is just a moment, because his apartment is tiny and it’s just a few steps from the shower in his bedroom to the dining table.
Osamu must have heard him, because he calls out, his tone as warm as the curry he’s probably ladling out, perhaps into the porcelain bowls his parents had gifted him, as a house-warming gift, “I’ve already laid out the table and everythin’.”
Akaashi pads out of his room and into the kitchen area, where Osamu’s already set the table for two. The aroma of the curry and freshly cooked rice is a physical assault on his senses, and he feels almost like a real human again. It strikes him that he’s been buzzing with antsy adrenaline the whole week, his brain focused solely on chasing deadlines he’s forgotten anything else.
The corners of Osamu’s mouth curve upwards in the slightest way, and Akaashi would be embarrassed by how closely the former is watching him if he honestly weren’t so touched by the gesture.
“Thank you for the meal,” is what Akaashi says instead, and Osamu smiles for real, like he knows what Akaashi really means.
“An’ thank yer for the company.” He gestures towards the dining table for Akaashi to take a seat, as if it’s his home instead of Akaashi’s. It should come off as presumptuous, but Akaashi finds that he honestly doesn’t mind. “Whatcha waitin’ for - dig in.”
It could be an exaggeration, the dormant Literature student in him, finally bearing his head after months of hibernation - but Akaashi’s soul ascends with his first bite. The second brings him closer to Nirvana, and the third allows him to uncover all the secrets in the universe.
He doesn’t realise he’s pretty much been inhaling the food in silence until Osamu says, from the other corner of the table, only halfway through his own bowl of curry rice, “Either yer really have been starving or I’m just that great a cook, huh.”
With the curry rice resting heavy-warm and comforting in Akaashi’s stomach, it strikes him how hollowed out he’d been feeling the whole week, like a film reel flickering just out of frame, even as the projector persists with running the whole show through. The food is steadying, centering, a physical presence that his mind can finally ground itself with. Akaashi looks down at the nearly empty bowl in front of him, too content to feel self-conscious, “I suppose it’s a bit of both.”
“Luckily, I cooked plenty for the both of us,” Osamu says easily, already standing up to dole out a second serving. He fills Akaashi’s bowl with another mountain of rice, ladles a gigantic serving of curry on top of it all, and hands it back to Akaashi.
Steam rises, in a tiny spiral, from the food in the bowl. He wouldn’t mind it one bit, Akaashi thinks, if this ended up being his last meal.
“Huh, I’d been planning on cookin’ for ya many, many times more though,” comes Osamu’s voice, a mix of haughtiness and pensiveness, and Akaashi startles, realising that he’d said the last thought out loud, too lost in the fog of other worldly taste and comfort food. He falters for a moment, mistaking Akaashi’s startled silence for something else, and continues, just a touch less sure, “If yer’d wanna be my taste-tester, of course.”
Euphemism or not, Akaashi doesn’t need to think too hard about his answer, “It’d be my greatest honour.”
⸻
After the left-overs are stowed away (a testament more to Osamu’s generosity in cooking than Akaashi’s ability to eat, because he’d gone through four rounds of curry), and the dishes are washed, Osamu picks up his backpack and heads towards the door, “‘right, I gotta be goin’.”
The little frisson of panic surprises even Akaashi, “You’re leaving?”
“Yea,” Osamu says this like he hadn’t expected to have been contradicted. He’s standing in the doorway, one hand already on the door handle. His brows furrow in a tiny frown, as if he’s caught off guard and wary of making a misstep, “I was gonna catch the last train back.”
“Stay,” the word flies out of Akaashi’s mouth before he even thinks it through, equal parts assertive and equal parts pleading. But it settles in the space between them, and Akaashi finds, he doesn’t mind it one bit.
“Wha-”
Akaashi continues, making a gallant attempt at putting across an entirely logical argument, “It’d be useful to have you around for breakfast in the morning.”
“Is that yer tellin’ me how ya like yer eggs in the mornin’?” Osamu smirks. Akaashi chalks up the swooping sensation in his stomach to the rapid way he’d devoured dinner, and not the mischievous glint in Osamu’s eyes.
“That’ll be a bit of a challenge though, I don’t think my kitchen has any eggs.”
“Well, luckily for yer, I bought a whole dozen over. It’s honestly shameful how little food ya have in yer apartment.”
“Then, I guess, you can surprise me tomorrow, Osamu-san.”
There’s the slightest pause, as Osamu’s lips form a small O , the words sinking in slowly into his 1am brain. Then the surprised look is gone, replaced with a smile, sly with understanding.
“Well, Keiji-kun,” he tries his luck, waits for a beat to see if Akaashi’s going to correct him. He’s rewarded instead with an Akaashi who meets his eyes, despite the growing blush that’s started from his round cheeks and is now creeping down his neck. “I definitely believe I will.”